“I beg your pardon a thousand times. I am most ashamed, utterly ashamed of myself,” he began.
But Maisie was too practically interested in his recovery to feel embarrassed.
“Keep sniffing at that thing,” she said, “you will soon be all right. Only just tell me—” she added anxiously, “there isn’t anything wrong with your heart, is there?”
“For if so,” she added to herself, “I must at all costs run and see if there is a doctor to be had.”
Despard smiled—a successfully bitter smile.
“No, thank you,” he said. “I am surprised that you credit me with possessing one,” he could not resist adding. “The real cause of this absurd faintness is a very prosaic one, I fancy. I went a long walk in the hot sun this morning.”
“Oh, indeed, that quite explains it,” said Maisie, slightly nettled. “Good-bye again then,” and for the second time she ran off.
“All the same, I will get Conrad or somebody to come round that way,” she said to herself. “I will just say I saw a man looking as if he was fainting. He won’t be likely to tell.”
And Despard sat there looking at the little silver toy in his bands.
“I did not thank her,” he said to himself. “I suppose I should have done so, though she would have done as much, or more, for a starving tramp on the road.”